Songbird
by Filthy Victorian Rose
Summary: After being separated from his sister and taken away to a mental asylum on the outskirts of London, young Finny finds himself incredibly alone. There he is used as a lab rat by doctors to pioneer an experiment described as a 'marvel of modern medical science'. Years of neglect and abuse cause him to lose what little hope he had until one day another lonely soul breaks the silence.


**Chapter 1**

"But just look at this!" The man slammed his hand forcefully against the lustrous ornate top of the mahogany table and gestured to the papers in front of him, "Since the outbreak of influenza this winter, our production has fallen by almost fifty percent and subsequently we've had a great reduction in profits!" There was the grumbling of mutual discernment around the table. "It is totally unacceptable!" The portly, red-faced man continued, "If any more of our workers are stricken with this wretched disease we will have to seriously consider making _significant _cutbacks!" He spoke with great implication and his eyes met hesitantly with the woman sitting at the opposite end of the table.

She sighed indignantly, irritated by the man's ambiguous hinting, and answered with a cold yet confident inflection, "And what, exactly, do you expect _me_ to do about that?"

Her face was as hard as stone, and twice as cheerless. In a room as dimly lit and solemnly decorated as this one she looked even more severe than usual. There was no love in this woman, nor had there ever been. She was tall, stern and undeniably terrifying – a truly formidable woman so intimidating that even the Board of Patrons, gathered in the dingy backroom that evening, were evidently uneasy when meeting with her. There was an austerity in her demeanour so odious that she could drain the life from a room merely by entering it. This was Ms. Marchant, the governess at St. Michael's Orphanage & Workhouse.

"Well," he said, apprehension transparent across his face, "There is something we wish to discuss with you . . . a proposition per se?" His knuckles cracked under the pressure of being on the table.

"Continue." Her tone was indifferent and her face unmoved. She straightened herself on her chair impatiently while the ruddy-faced man fumbled frantically amidst the clutter on the table. Another, less portentous man calmly reached out and retrieved a file from amongst the debris, passing it casually to Ms. Marchant. The first man collapsed, relieved, into his chair which gave a dismayed groan under his weight. He gave an indebted half-smile to his colleague; only to be shot a disdainful look in return. The man his throat.

"Mrs Marchant-"

"Ms." She corrected scornfully.

"Ms. Marchant, my apologies. As Lord Ellingford has mentioned, more and more of our workers are going down every day! The trouble is, there seems to be nothing we can do about it, and if this sickness takes anymore of our workforce we'll have to consider stopping production! If the working classes weren't so obscenely idle then perhaps they might actually have the fortitude to withstand this damned disease – or perhaps the Good Lord might be benevolent enough not to punish their wanton greed and apathy in the first place! Either way they bring it upon themselves with their indulgent expectation of charity, instead of crawling out of the gutter and actually working for their money! Makes me wonder where this country is heading!"

Again, muttering circulated the table as the Board empathised with his reactionary frustration – most of them far too overweight to be in a position to criticise the 'indulgent' attitudes of the impoverished and destitute.

"However there's more for us to concern ourselves with than the current state of the nation." The man continued, taking on a more informative tone, "With so many of our workforce taken ill or inauspiciously deceased, we can no longer produce goods on the scale we are used to and so our capital has taken a substantial hit!"

Ms Marchant rolled her eyes, her disdain palpable in the air, "I do know how business works Mr. Leith."

Lord Ellingford rose suddenly, his chair scraping against the exposed floorboards. Cleary he regretted allowing Mr. Leith to take control of the situation. "What my partner was so crudely trying to explain is the crisis we find ourselves facing. On one hand, we simply cannot find the subsidy to keep this workhouse in operation, however on the other hand we value the work you do here very highly! Without the foundations you lay down here; the ethics and sense of conformity you bestow upon these sordid children, as well, of course, as a fear of the Lord in Heaven – we dread what kind of workers we may be forced to employ! Malingerers and layabouts . . . No, it simply would not do!"

Ms Marchant's expression remained detached and he knew he was losing her interest. She was not a woman who was easily inspired.

"Instead," He began with distinctly more vigour, "We have found a solution to suit us both, a compromise!"

"It's hardly a compromise when I really have no choice." Ms Marchant stated venomously, causing the Lord Ellingford to reel for a moment.

"A favour then, but one that will keep you in employment!" He tone was more demurring, but the stance he had taken on was certainly more assertive. It was clear that these negotiations were not the time sidestepping her uncongenial attitude. "The details are somewhat classified at this moment in time, but we are launching a new scheme that hopefully will be made available to our workers in the near future! A true marvel of modern medical science! Imagine if there was a way for us to strengthen our workforce tenfold. Although we have no solution to this particular outbreak, preventing our workforce from becoming so debilitated in the future would be in all of our best interests. Not only would we regain the profits we have lost out on this year, we would exceed them and undercut the competition too!"

"Oh enough of this childish speculation! What is it you want from me, Gentlemen?"

Taking this as a sign of her submission, Lord Ellingford relaxed and smiled. "We can pioneer a groundbreaking treatment which will make our workers the most resilient in England . . . All we ask of you is a child."

Her forehead furrowed slightly, though her skin was so taught against her face that it is surprising she could move it at all ". . . A child?"

"Yes, preferably a boy. One that's not got a lot of pluck; someone weak - scrawny - so that we can test the effectiveness of this procedure on even the most pathetic of souls."

Upon hearing these words, Ms. Marchant's approach altered. She leant forward slightly, a sly smile twitching at the corner of her thin lips as they curled under in devilish triumph. Her eyes glinted as she spoke "I think I have the perfect candidate in mind."


End file.
